


Good Intentions

by AZGirl



Series: Musketeers - Season 3 [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e05 To Play the King, Friendship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his good intentions, he’d had a part in condemning innocent people to death. Spoilers for 3.05 To Play the King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> This tag begins at the end of the episode, and should probably be considered AU.  
> .

**ooooooo**

_“What have I done?”_

_~~~~~~~d’Artagnan, 3.05 To Play the King_

**ooooooo**

“Where are you going?” d’Artagnan asked as Athos hurried away from him and out through the garrison’s gate. 

When he expressed doubt over his duty and his uncertainty over who he was fighting for, d’Artagnan had not expected his captain’s face to be overcome by an odd expression before the man deserted him without another word. Was Athos so disappointed in him, so disgusted by his mistakes, that the older man could no longer stand to sit with him at the same table? 

It was certainly possible given the close call of the day, but he thought he recognized that look on Athos’s face, and had an idea of where the man might be headed. Apparently, a woman Athos barely knew was more important at the moment than a brother incapable of doing his duty to protect the royal family as well as the people of Paris. 

He had simply wanted to help a man that he had considered broken. Borel had been a man who possessed a broken mind as a result of the horrors of war, and had needed somewhere other than a prison to find a little bit of peace. The past four years had opened his eyes wide to the atrocities men could commit against each other in the name of war and in the name of their sovereign rulers. He knew how such atrocities could stay with a man or hammer at their spirits until their minds were gone past any hope of recovery. 

He had not been immune to what he’d seen, heard, and done out on the front lines of battle. Nightmares were commonplace amongst the soldiers; even Porthos and Athos suffered from them, as did he on occasion. In addition, he was often plagued with the inability to sleep at all or for more than an hour or so at a time. D’Artagnan knew it worried his friends that he was so afflicted, but he could not help it. Often – too often – his mind would not quiet down enough to be able to fall asleep. 

In the beginning, he had tried to hide his ailment from his closest friends, but all too quickly – at least in his mind – Porthos had figured out something was wrong with him. Porthos had threatened to inform their captain that he was no longer fit for duty if d’Artagnan didn’t confess what was bothering him. However, once his friend had heard what the problem was, Porthos had informed Athos anyway. 

D’Artagnan had been furious with Porthos for breaking his word and divulging his weakness to Athos. In his opinion, it had been bad enough that Porthos knew about it. Porthos had argued that he had threatened to inform the Captain but had made no such promise about telling Athos. Before he could argue that they were the same person, Porthos had quickly reminded him that they weren’t. Informing Athos was telling a friend, whereas informing the Captain required a completely different response to the problem at hand. 

Though he had grudgingly accepting the explanation, he had remained angry that he had been manipulated in such a way by his friend. Porthos’s only response had been to laugh and say, “At least now you have a better reason to be angry.” 

Instead of being disappointed or annoyed with him, or coddling him, or any other of a hundred different responses, Athos sat him down and they had discussed the issue at hand. At the time, the French army had been gearing up for another offensive against the Spanish, and yet Athos had set aside his duties as captain to help him. It was an act of brotherhood that he would never forget and would hope to someday repay. 

So certain that he could help Borel, d’Artagnan had gravely misjudged the situation – one among many such mistakes he had made in his life. This latest misjudgment had nearly cost his Queen her life and had cost the lives of four other people. 

After pouring some more wine into his cup, he took a long drink and nearly spit it right back out. Staring down into the liquid as if it had betrayed him, he wondered how it could suddenly have turned so bitter and so like ashes on his tongue. Or, perhaps it was him who had become bitter and made of ash. 

ooooooo 

“Have either of you seen d’Artagnan?” Constance asked Aramis and Porthos who were cleaning their weapons. 

“We thought he was with you, basking in the warmth of your—Ow!” Aramis said, rubbing the back of his head while Porthos laughed heartily. 

“It serves you right for that kind of talk,” Constance said before sending a glare in Porthos’s direction, causing the man to suddenly cease his laughing. “He didn’t come home last night. The last I saw him, he was here talking with Athos.” 

“Well, there you go. He must be with Athos. There’s no reason to worry, Constance.” 

“Maybe,” Constance said, sounding unconvinced and looking towards the garrison’s gate as if she was expecting her husband to walk through it right at that moment. Porthos couldn’t help but wonder how much Constance knew about d’Artagnan’s problem. 

Porthos stood and sheathed his sword. “How about you stay here in case d’Artagnan and Athos come back, while we go looking for them?”  

Constance looked ready to argue, but then she immediately deflated, likely having seen the wisdom of at least one of them staying behind at the garrison. They were all aware that this had not been the first night that d’Artagnan had not returned home, the younger man instead choosing to not disturb his wife. Aramis had heard bits and pieces from Porthos about how there had been nights over the last four years that d’Artagnan couldn’t seem to settle down into sleep, dealing with insomnia for days on end. 

D’Artagnan had hidden the problem for as long as he could, but Porthos had noticed his friend’s irregular behavior as well as the accompanying exhaustion. Fed up after d’Artagnan had almost dropped from exhaustion after a long day’s march, Porthos had cornered the younger man about it. Once he had admitted his problem, either Athos or Porthos would help him calm down enough to at least relax and get some rest. As far as Aramis knew, d’Artagnan had had few recurrences of that problem since returning to Paris. Perhaps recent events had stirred something up inside him and Athos had taken it upon himself to help their friend. 

Aramis and Porthos finish gearing up, and as they pass Constance to head out of the garrison, they each briefly lay a hand on her shoulder. 

ooooooo 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan could no longer stay sitting where he was. The garrison’s walls were closing in around him, making him feel trapped. He had to leave; he needed to move. Briefly, he thought of grabbing his doublet, but decided against the action, believing he would not be gone long enough to need it. 

At first, he stuck to the area just outside the garrison, but soon found himself and his thoughts going further and further afield. 

Four people were dead because he had allowed himself to feel for a man whose mind was not well. He had killed people since he had become a Musketeer, but that had been in the line of duty. They had been men who had been committing crimes or murdering people for nefarious purposes. Though his hand was not the one that actually committed the killings, he knew that Borel’s murders were his fault. His good intentions had led those people to an early death. 

His mind began to flood with memories of other mistakes and misjudgments that he had made in his life. How many deaths could be attributed to them? How many lives had he destroyed? In the past, he had been told that these failings were not his fault, or that they could have happened to anyone, or that his heart had been in the right place. None of those platitudes seemed acceptable to him. 

Before, when Borel was just an ex-soldier who had survived unspeakable horrors associated with a year-long siege, Porthos had told him that he had done the right thing. When the extent of Borel’s insanity became known, leaving the royal family in danger, Aramis had told him that he’d had good intentions. 

After it was over and Borel was dead, Porthos had patted him on the back, squeezing his shoulder briefly before they escorted the Queen back to the palace. He knew that Porthos would likely keep an eye out for his sleeping problem for the next several days. After the Queen was safe, he thought that Aramis would hate him for putting the mother of his child at risk and for almost dying to protect her. Instead, Aramis had asked for his help to treat his wound, the request indicating that he was forgiven and still trusted d’Artagnan with his life. 

Just before they had found out that Borel was not as harmless as he seemed, d’Artagnan had had to confess that he’d allowed a prisoner sanctuary at the church instead of returning him to the Châtelet. After they had found the murdered nuns, Athos had given him this look. It was a look of frustration and disappointment combined. It had been a look that said _I know you can do better than this,_ and that they would be talking about what he had done at a later time. 

Yet, there had been no real talk between them after he had shot Borel and before Athos had left the garrison. He found himself torn between being relieved and being disappointed on that score. 

On the warfront, he, Athos, and Porthos had been extremely close. They had helped each other get through the bad days, sat by each other’s sides when injured, and celebrated the good days. They’d been each other’s rock, the firm foundation upon which their survival through war had depended. 

Now that Aramis was back with them; now that they were back in Paris, it was as if Athos was becoming someone he no longer knew as well. Was this most recent mistake what finally rent the fabric of their friendship in two? Was there any hope of redemption in his Captain’s eyes? 

He would simply have to— 

ooooooo 

Aramis and Porthos could’ve waited until after morning muster before going to look for their two friends, but Constance’s anxiety over her husband had been infectious. They were also worried that, with the animosity between the regiments, it was possible their friends had wound up in trouble. The two men weren’t keen on letting their friends stay that way any longer than necessary, if that was the case. Deciding to return in time for muster, they started by checking the obvious places nearby for their friends. 

No one had seen either d’Artagnan or Athos since around the time Constance had last seen them. One of the newest recruits thought they had seen Athos quickly leaving the garrison alone, but in their minds that information seemed out of character. Outside of the garrison, they were careful with their inquiries lest word get back to Marcheaux of the Red Guards, who would be more than willing to take advantage of two Musketeers, one likely impaired by drink, out on their own. 

Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan showed up for muster, making worry for their friends’ well-being increase ten-fold. Porthos took it upon himself to hand out the day’s assignments, while Aramis asked Constance a few more questions before going to check out d’Artagnan’s quarters. 

Aramis was absurdly relieved to see that d’Artagnan’s weapons were missing, but that relief quickly vanished when he spotted the man’s newer, black doublet hanging off of a chair. He couldn’t imagine d’Artagnan going anywhere outside of the garrison without it, especially since the steady rainfall that had plagued the city for most of the night had made it a rather chilly evening outside. He had a hard time believing Athos would let d’Artagnan leave the garrison without his uniform on. 

When Aramis and Porthos met up again, they discussed their next plan of action. So far, they had managed to keep the fact that both Athos and d’Artagnan were missing a secret from the cadets, attributing their absences to the men having to attend to the King. Hopefully, they could keep up the ruse for a little while longer. 

Porthos and Aramis had just decided to check out some of the seedier taverns for their wayward friends, when Athos casually made his way into the garrison – without d’Artagnan at his side. 

ooooooo 

Lost in his thoughts, d’Artagnan hadn’t realized where he had been walking. Without him consciously choosing his direction, it seemed that he had made his way towards the church where he’d condemned the two nuns to deaths that were anything but peaceful. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of special hell was waiting for him when he died for his part in the murders of two devoted sisters in the faith. For his sin of arrogance and for believing that he knew how best to handle Borel despite not having more information, he had brought forth violence into God’s House. 

D’Artagnan’s steps slowed as he approached the church, having trouble determining whether or not he should go inside. However, when he finally decided and had tried to open the doors, they were locked. He had thought to pay his respects by lighting candles for each of the nuns, but the locked doors meant he was also missing out on the opportunity to apologize. It seemed God was not quite ready to forgive him yet. Trying the doors again in vain caught the attention of a passerby who informed him that the church was closed to the public until after the funerals. 

For the longest time, he stood on the steps wondering what to do next, where he should go next. Looking up into the sky, he noticed that some dark clouds were gathering overhead. It seemed a foregone conclusion that it would rain in the near future. It was only a matter of time. 

Time seemed to be all he had at the moment. Constance was aware that he had wanted to talk to Athos, as his friend and as his captain, about all that had happened, and had made plans accordingly. Her expression told him that she knew not to expect him home until late or at all. That talk had not been meant to be. Captain Athos was off duty and his Friend Athos was otherwise occupied. 

Aramis and Porthos were spending the evening together continuing to reconnect after their four-year separation. They’d had a difficult time adjusting to Aramis being gone from their ranks; Porthos more so than anyone else. It had been as if they were missing a limb and had to learn how to fight without it, as a threesome. Eventually, they managed to figure it out, but d’Artagnan was certainly grateful that Aramis had chosen to come back with them. He was happy that it seemed as if Aramis and Porthos were enjoying some of the old comradeship of before. Therefore, he couldn’t begrudge their time together at the tavern, and had no intentions on interrupting their night. 

ooooooo 

“Where the hell have you been?” Porthos asked, looking past Athos and expecting to see d’Artagnan to come stumbling in through the gate. 

“You’re late reporting to duty and no one has seen you since yesterday afternoon. We’ve been worried sick that something had happened to you both,” Aramis added, relieved to see Athos but perplexed at why d’Artagnan had not returned with their captain. 

When Athos had entered, he had looked at ease, almost smug, but with their greeting the man’s posture straightened and his expression closed off. “I had something I needed to take care of.” 

Comprehension dawning, Porthos snorted and said, “Something or—” 

“Someone,” Aramis finished Porthos’s sentence, anger creeping into his voice. 

Athos’s whole body went tense and they could see anger creeping into his features. “That is…”—Athos’s hands curled to become fists even as he took a calming breath—“out of line and _none of your business_.” 

“My friend,” Aramis said, holding up his hands in surrender and beckoning his friends to a more private corner of the courtyard. “It _is_ our business when we thought you were with d’Artagnan and could take comfort in the idea, that though you both seemed to be missing, that you were at least together.” 

Startled out of his anger, Athos said, “Missing?” Worry began stealing over his features. “What do you mean ‘missing’? 

Porthos leveled a look at Athos that clearly expressed how stupid that question had been. “Not here. Gone. What do you think it means?” 

Athos shot a glare at Porthos, not appreciating the sarcasm and expecting the other man to have given him more useful information. 

“From what we can tell, until this moment, the last time anyone saw the two of you, you were at this table”—Aramis gestured at what used to be their regular table only a few yards away—“What were you talking about?” 

“Borel. D’Artagnan was expressing his…remorse over having to kill such a troubled man, despite his criminal actions.” 

There was a brief lull because both Porthos and Aramis thought Athos would have more to say about the last time he’d seen d’Artagnan. 

Impatience taking over, Porthos said, “And then what?” 

“And then, I realized that there was something I urgently had to do and left. I haven’t seen him since.” 

Aramis lifted a hand to his eyes and rubbed them for a moment before sighing. “Let me get this straight. You left d’Artagnan alone— He was drinking?”—Athos nodded—“You left d’Artagnan drinking alone so you could go see that _woman_. Couldn’t you have waited until you made sure he was on more of an even keel?” 

Anger crept into Athos’s expression. Gesturing at the table he’d last seen d’Artagnan, Athos said, “He was drowning his sorrows right here at the garrison. I knew Constance would be around to sort him out if he needed it. I didn’t think…” 

With a huff of disbelief, Porthos threw up his hands and turned away from his friends for a moment. When he turned back he jabbed a finger at Athos’s chest. “No…. No, you didn’t think did you? I can’t believe you—” 

Sensing Porthos was about to lose his temper, Aramis interrupted. “You are his commanding officer, his friend, and his brother. Three very compelling reasons to delay your liaison. If he was expecting his commanding officer to reprimand him, he did not get that. If he was expecting his friend to commiserate with him or give advice, he did not get that. And, if he expected his older brother to console him, then he did not get that either.”—Aramis grabbed Athos’s doublet and brought the man a step closer.—“Have you forgotten what you mean to him? All that you’ve been through together!” 

When Athos didn’t immediately answer, Porthos pried Aramis’s fingers off the man’s doublet. “We’re wasting time. He could be anywhere by now. He could be—” 

“He’s not dead,” Athos said. 

“Do you even care?” 

“Of course I do, damn it!” 

“Then why didn’t you show d’Artagnan that you cared yesterday?” 

“Because I—” Athos had to stop himself mid-sentence from yelling the whole truth as to why he’d left the garrison. After a deep breath he continued. “I do care. I do.”—he ran a hand through his hair—“D’Artagnan seemed to be coping well on the whole, though perhaps out of sorts because he misjudged…the…” 

When Athos’s words trailed off, Aramis noticed that his friends’ faces had paled slightly. 

“What?” Aramis asked; he was confused by the looks the two were exchanging. 

“Porthos, you don’t think—?” Athos asked. 

“Damn it!” Porthos said, slamming the palm of his hand against a nearby wall. “Maybe… Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” 

Not understanding the byplay, Aramis asked, “Think of what? What’s wrong?” 

“My apologies,” Athos replied. “Sometimes I forget—” 

Aramis held up a hand to halt Athos. He sometimes forgot that they had been apart for four years as well. “It’s fine. Why am I suddenly extremely worried about our younger friend?” 

His friends exchanged loaded stares between them before Porthos nodded slightly as if relinquishing storytelling rights to the other man. Athos put his hands on his hips and looked down at the ground for a moment before looking back up and speaking. 

“About three or four months after the regiment deployed to the front, d’Artagnan made an error in judgment while out with two others scouting the enemy’s defenses. This misjudgment led to an ambush. D’Artagnan got them all out of there, but not without a cost. D’Artagnan and Ingres had minor wounds, from which they both quickly recovered. Atget’s wound, which no one thought serious, ended up festering and he succumbed shortly thereafter. D’Artagnan didn’t…” 

Athos trailed off, but Porthos soon picked up the tale. “He didn’t take what happened too well. Blamed himself for something that could’ve happened to any of the other scouting parties – and has happened since then. Guilt ate away at him. His sleeping problem got worse.” 

“Then one night he disappeared,” Athos said. “The information from d’Artagnan’s scouting party as well as a report from another was enough so that we could advance without walking straight in to the path of the Spanish.”—Athos shifted his weight from one foot to the other—“It took us near a day to find him…” 

“Where?” Aramis quietly asked Athos. 

“Back at the site of the ambush. Apparently, we had passed it by as we marched, and for whatever reason he went back there. It was as if he was obsessed with figuring out what went wrong, so it wouldn’t happen again.” 

Porthos sighed. “We don’t know for sure. He wouldn’t say why he had to go there. Luckily, we got him back to camp before the General found out that he had briefly deserted.” 

“Thank God,” said Aramis, recalling that deserters were shot. “So you think he must have done something similar.” 

“I do,” said Athos. “The only problem is that I do not know where he caught Borel.” 

“It won’t be there,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “That might be where he misjudged things, but it’s not where it all went wrong.” 

“The nuns,” Aramis said as he crossed himself. “Borel killed them before moving on to the palace.” 

Porthos started towards the garrison’s gate. “We should go before Constance sees you, Athos.” 

Aramis snorted, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I don’t have to imagine how hard that woman can hit if she sees you and not her husband.” 

“Quite,” Athos said as they hurried out past a couple of cadets, who were practicing their sword forms. All three of the men hoped that none of the young men had noticed their captain. 

ooooooo 

Decision made, d’Artagnan started walking again, not really paying attention to where he was going and not yet ready to head back to the garrison. 

As he walked, he kept on replaying in his head every moment he had spent with the crazed, veteran soldier, trying to figure out what he could’ve done differently to keep innocents from dying. Every single detail was considered and reconsidered, criticized and picked apart to the smallest detail.  He found error in his every decision and his every movement. 

When that wasn’t enough, he started to analyze past missions, battles, and skirmishes in order to prove to himself that the deaths of innocents due to his actions were not a one-time occurrence. He may have won his commission because of loyalty to the Musketeers, but he was beginning to feel as if he should never have been able to keep it based on how many undeserving people he had condemned to die. All the negative thoughts running around in his head were only convincing him that he no longer deserved to wear the emblem of the King’s Musketeers. 

It was only when a horse and rider almost ran him down, that d’Artagnan discovered how close he was to the city’s outer edge. He shivered slightly at the chill winds which had brought even darker clouds with them, blocking out what little had been left of the blue sky. In the distance, he could see the grassy hills and farms dotting the landscape here and there. His thoughts then strayed towards his home in Lupiac and towards his father, who had been yet another victim of his poor judgment. 

Having been away from Paris for more than four years, d’Artagnan had not been back to the small village where he’d had to bury his father. In fact, the last time he had been to the cemetery to visit his father was just after he had been commissioned. Not wanting to be alone, he had asked Athos to accompany him on the trip. 

Once they had arrived at the cemetery, d’Artagnan had been equal parts thankful and embarrassed to have the older man with him. His pride over his accomplishment had very shortly been followed by a fall into despair. With Athos standing a short distance away, d’Artagnan poured out his feelings of guilt over his mistakes relating to his father’s death, and his shame for not going back to Lupiac to run the farm, to the rock serving as a grave marker. 

He had been unable to afford either a carved wooden cross or a tombstone and had to settle for a rock with one flat surface that he’d found at a nearby river. Before he had gone to seek out the one who had shot his last-remaining parent, the Gascon had damaged beyond repair a small knife by scratching his father’s initials onto it. It had been the best he could do for the person who had meant the most in the world to him. 

That day, the newly commissioned Musketeer once again ended up on his knees – this time in front of the grave and with tears of remorse flowing down his face. At some point, Athos had moved closer to him to stand on his right side, saying nothing but providing support nonetheless. 

Thoughts of his father’s death, his mistakes of judgment, and more continued to go round and round inside of his head. He couldn’t seem to shake them, and hadn’t noticed that he had left Paris to continue walking without thought of direction, safety, or the poor weather. 

ooooooo 

The weather, which had been partly cloudy with a light breeze, had begun to turn and it looked as if there would soon be more rain. 

Porthos, Aramis, and Athos reached the main doors of the church just as the first few scattered drops of rain hit them. Finding the doors barred shut, likely in deference to the recent deaths of two of the sisters, they sought out another entryway, but none were unlocked. 

“The palace?” Porthos suggested. 

“Not if he wants to get shot,” Aramis said. “After yesterday and with d’Artagnan out of uniform, the Red Guards would definitely shoot first and not bother to ask any questions later.” 

Athos stopped in his tracks despite the now lightly, but steadily falling rain. “Out of uniform?” 

Aramis retraced his steps and grabbed Athos’s shoulder so that he could propel the man towards the tavern that Porthos had spotted when they had left the church. 

“He left without donning his doublet or pauldron, though I am certain that he has his sword and main gauche.” As they entered the tavern, Aramis added. “I’m less certain of whether or not he has a pistol.” 

As they sat down at a table, Athos said, “I’m uncertain of whether or not that idea is of any comfort.” 

“That’s basically what I said, when Aramis told me that,” said Porthos as he set three mugs of ale down onto the table. 

After a couple of minutes, Aramis put his mug down and said, “So… Not at the garrison or the church. Probably not at the palace. Where could he be?” 

“A tavern somewhere?” Porthos said before straightened up in his chair and searching the darkened room for their missing friend. 

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other and then shook their heads in the negative to indicate that neither of them had spotted d’Artagnan. 

“Athos?” Aramis said. 

Their captain seemed to be lost in thought; his mug raised half way between the table and his mouth. They recognized the look; it was the one he got when he was mentally reviewing information in order to formulate a plan of action. Both men knew to leave Athos alone when he got that particular look on his face. In the meantime, Aramis and Porthos continued to throw out suggestions, which only became more and more ridiculous as the minutes passed. 

Suddenly, they heard Athos’s mug hit the table with a loud _thunk_. 

Aramis and Porthos snapped to attention in their seats at the sound, and then had to scramble to get up from their seats to follow Athos out of the tavern. They caught up to Athos just outside the entrance, almost running into him because he’d stopped so suddenly. 

Hands on his hips, Athos seemed to be taking in his surroundings as if he were trying to decide the best direction to go…wherever he’d gotten into his mind to go. Athos then looked down and put a hand on his forehead and shook his head. 

“Athos, what—?” Aramis began to ask, annoyed that his friend had left without saying a word. 

Athos ran a hand through his hair to dislodge some of the misting rain that had collected in it, noting how the weather had stolen away much of the warmth of the day away. “I think…I think I may have an idea where d’Artagnan is, but it’s...” 

“It’s what?” Porthos asked, sounding frustrated at why there was any sort of delay. 

“It’s just a gut feeling, but if I’m right, then we need to get to him quickly.” 

Aramis laid a hand on Athos’s shoulder. “Athos, my friend, you and d’Artagnan have always seemed to get each other, have this bond. If your gut is telling you something, then I think we had better listen to it.” 

Athos nodded once, though it was clear that he still doubted himself. The other two Musketeers exchanged a glance, both of them wondering if it was guilt over essentially abandoning d’Artagnan that was causing the man’s lingering doubt. 

“It’s too far on foot; we will need horses to get there without any undue delay.” 

The three Musketeers turned and ran towards the garrison, each of them eager to find their missing brother. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan’s negative circular thoughts kept him from noticing many things as he continued to walk. 

When it began to rain not long after he left the city, he didn’t notice how wet he and his clothes had become. 

His distraction kept him from feeling any pain when he slipped in the mud and turned his ankle a little, causing him to limp slightly. 

Though he had been walking for hours on end, he didn’t realize how foot sore he had become. If he had realized, he may have recalled that it had been months since he’d been required to travel so far in one day. 

Night had fallen and somehow he remained on the right road, though he scarcely knew it, until he arrived at what would have been a small, yet familiar, village. 

The rain had stopped falling and the full moon continued to occasionally come out from behind the remaining clouds to guide him to his final destination. 

He only realized what he had done and how far he had walked when he stumbled over his own feet and managed to catch himself on a semi-ornate grave marker. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t believe where he was, and yet he felt as if he had been heading to the cemetery ever since he had stood at the edge of Paris.  

Overhead, the moon continued to play hide and seek with the clouds in the sky, making it difficult to find his father’s grave. He was certain he knew where it should be, but couldn’t find the river rock he’d used as a marker. Had someone taken it? _Why_ would someone take it? 

Shivering from the cool air and his wet clothes, he went back to the oak tree that he was certain was the one next to his father’s grave. When next the moon came out of hiding, he again searched for the rock – and found it. 

It was leaning against a tombstone that was smaller than the others and had no ornamentation on it at all except for his father’s full name. His weary mind wasn’t able to comprehend what he was seeing. He didn’t order this stone, and could not fathom how it had come to be there. 

Falling to his knees, he reached out a shaking hand to trace the letters one by one. He felt a tear slide down his face as he began to tell his father of the past four years. D’Artagnan left nothing out of his narrative, and purged his shame, regret, and guilt to someone who could not hear him on this side of Heaven. 

He did not ask for forgiveness, but he felt a sense of peace overcome him nonetheless. Perhaps it was the act of confession. Perhaps it was the fact that he had long needed to get the weight of his burdens off of his chest. Perhaps it was for a reason his exhausted mind could not currently comprehend. 

Whatever the reason, it helped. He could say anything and everything on his mind. He could tell this grave marker things he could not – or would not – tell his friends or his wife. 

When he finally finished speaking, the sun had long since come up, and his mind felt freer than it had in far too long. He would probably always carry some traces of guilt and far too many regrets regarding his misjudgments, but d’Artagnan thought they would be easier for him to bear from now on. 

ooooooo 

It wasn’t until the trio had nearly reached the southwestern edge of the city limits that either Porthos or Aramis thought to wonder where they were heading. 

By the time Porthos had grabbed the reins of Athos’s horse, which forced him to slow down to a walk, Athos was convinced that his friends had likely tried to get his attention more than once over the past several minutes. 

“Hey, whoa there for a minute,” Porthos said as they all slowed their horses to a walk. 

“Athos, where are we going?” Aramis asked. “Surely d’Artagnan didn’t leave the city.” 

“It is my belief that he did.” 

“On foot?” Porthos said, his eyebrows rising in surprise. 

Athos dipped his head in confirmation. “On foot.” 

Looking utterly bewildered, Aramis asked, “But why? Where on God’s earth would he have gone?” 

“We don’t have time for this!” Athos said, sensing that d’Artagnan needed them. 

“Then explain – loudly – as we ride,” Porthos said, giving his friend a look that said there would be consequences if Athos did not comply. 

They nudged their horses into a trot as Athos began to explain. “Do you recall the circumstances of how we met d’Artagnan?” 

Porthos snorted and said, “As if we could ever forget.” 

“Indeed.” Athos couldn’t help but smile slightly at the memory of his first encounter with the brash Gascon. “With his home so far away, d’Artagnan was forced to bury his father just outside of Paris. He asked me to accompany him on a visit to the cemetery not long after he received his commission. I think he is there now.” 

“Athos, that seems…” 

“I know how it seems, Aramis,” Athos said, his voice hinting at his own uncertainty of d’Artagnan’s current location. “The church where the nuns were killed was locked, I was not there for him when he needed me yesterday, and I can think of no other perceived errors of judgment over which he could still retain any lingering guilt.” 

“Perceived errors of judgment,” Porthos repeated. 

 “Yes. Over his father’s death.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Athos hesitated to answer sensing that the others might not know as much as he did. 

Aramis saved him from having to break a confidence. “You’re not saying that d’Artagnan in any way blames himself for his father’s death, are you?” 

“But they just stopped at a random roadside inn,” Porthos added. “How could he have known that Gaudet would come along and kill his father?” 

“He couldn’t,” Athos said, sounding as if he’d made that precise argument more than once. 

“Was it d’Artagnan’s idea to stop at the inn?” 

Athos said nothing, but his expression ending up being answer enough for the two other men. 

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, sorrow bleeding into his voice.  “That’s a heavy burden he carries.” 

Not wanting to get into details that d’Artagnan might not want shared with the others, Athos said, “The village is on the other side of the hill in the next valley. I know how improbable this must seem, but I can continue on this path if you want to go back to the city and continue looking elsewhere in case I am wrong.” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Porthos said. 

Aramis shrugged and added, “We’ve come this far. I don’t like the idea of us splitting up.” 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan’s body had been taken well past its limits. For the past couple of hours, he had been leaning sideways against the tombstone as he had poured out his heart to his father. Now that he was finished, he thought they each needed their rest. 

The Gascon tried to stand, but found that he couldn’t get his feet under him no matter how hard he tried. So he crawled. 

He slowly, and with great difficulty, crawled the short distance to the old oak tree and sat his weary body down to lean back against its wide trunk. His feet, his legs – in fact, his whole body hurt, but he managed to find a comfortable-enough position by stretching his legs out before him and resting his hands in his lap. 

He was drifting along the edges of consciousness when some raindrops hit his face, having somehow found their way past the tangled boughs above his head. He thought about seeking better shelter, but couldn’t make his shivering body comply. 

As sleep finally overtook him, he found that his last thoughts were of his wife and brothers. 

ooooooo 

The village that the three men rode into was small, and it would only require a handful of minutes to completely pass through on horseback. Not much could be said about the place other than it was a farming community and that it had a simply-constructed, stone chapel. 

At first, Aramis wondered why d’Artagnan had chosen this village in which to inter his father. The inn where the elder d’Artagnan had been murdered was located at least an hour or more north, which begged the question of why the younger man had not continued on ahead to Paris to bury his father. Yet, as they rode towards the chapel, which was situated on land slightly higher that the rest of the village’s small marketplace, he could see the appeal of the peaceful farming community and how it had likely would have reminded a grieving, young Gascon of his home in Lupiac. 

Athos led them around to the southern side of the chapel where the cemetery would be found, and they dismounted at its outer edge. Not seeing d’Artagnan immediately, he began to believe that he may have been wrong in what his gut had been telling him. 

It was not as if the cemetery was that large, so it shouldn’t be so difficult to spot their friend. Surrounded on two sides by trees, there was a mix of wooden and stone grave markers, the former obviously heavily preferred due to the cost of a stone marker. For a moment, he struggled to remember where d’Artagnan’s father had been buried, then remembered to look for a tombstone that was slightly shorter than the few others, in between a wooden cross and a wide, old— 

There! The oak tree…  

And peeking out from behind the tree was a sliver of white. 

Athos was already moving towards the incongruous patch of white amongst the drab colors of the cemetery and the green leaves of the trees when he heard his name being called by both Porthos and Aramis. 

“This way!” Athos said, pointing towards the large oak as he weaved his way through the sea of grave markers. 

As he approached, the bit of white became the sleeve of d’Artagnan’s shirt, which then became the man they had been searching for. 

D’Artagnan was sitting with his legs outstretched and leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. His friend’s eyes were closed, his hands resting in his lap, and his whole body was slack. 

Athos dropped to his knees just as Porthos came up behind him, making a sound of dismay. 

“Is he…?” Porthos asked. 

Athos was almost afraid to touch d’Artagnan. Except for the younger man’s furrowed brow, he looked peaceful there, sitting against the tree. 

And then he saw it. A puff of mist, indicating the breath of life, was coming from d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

Athos looked up and met Porthos’s eyes and saw that his friend had also seen the same sign of life. They shared a look of relief before Athos turned back to the sleeping, but most likely unconscious, man before him. 

That sign finally gave him the courage to touch d’Artagnan. Athos laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, where he immediately felt that the shirt was thoroughly damp. Moving his hand up to the juncture of the shoulder and neck, he almost pulled his hand back at the chilled skin he felt under his fingers, though the fine tremors gave him hope that the cold, rainy weather had not pushed d’Artagnan past all hope of recovery. 

Just as he began to wonder where Aramis was, the former monk arrived on the scene with a saddlebag stuffed full of supplies the man thought might be needed when they found d’Artagnan. 

“Is he…?” Aramis said, unintentionally echoing Porthos’s recent question. 

Athos looked up and met Aramis’s worried eyes. 

“He’s alive.” 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan dreamed – or at least he thought he did. 

In his dream, he thought he heard his friends talking about him. They sounded worried and he wanted to ease their anxiety, but couldn’t seem to move or even open his eyes. Seconds or hours later, he had a sudden feeling of weightlessness overtake him, and his dream faded to black in the next moment. 

When he opened his eyes, he found that he did not recognize his surroundings. His body felt heavy and his mind seemed to be full of straw, making his thoughts slow to coalesce and become coherent. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open for very long and he allowed them to close once more. 

As he drifted back towards sleep or unconsciousness – he couldn’t tell which at the moment – d’Artagnan thought he heard familiar voices. However, he couldn’t bring himself to return to wakefulness enough to figure out who the voices belonged to. 

ooooooo 

Athos entered the room they had rented without knocking on the door. “How is he?” 

Aramis moved to sit in the chair that had been placed next to d’Artagnan’s bed. He put his hand on the younger man’s forehead for a moment before lifting the blanket and laying a hand on the still fingers of d’Artagnan’s right hand. “Much better. Almost back to normal.” 

“Good,” Athos said, his relief evident in his voice and expression. He turned towards Porthos. “His clothes?” 

“Getting there,” Porthos replied. He then gestured towards what Athos had brought back with him. “You brought his doublet?” 

Athos nodded before adding, “I thought he would need it. Plus, we couldn’t risk Constance noticing it; she would only have worried more.” 

“So that’s where you disappeared off to while we were getting the horses ready,” Aramis said as he moved to the small table across the room and poured himself a cup of wine. 

“Yes,” Athos said with a slight smile. “She almost caught me getting this”—he lifted the doublet still in his hand up slightly—“so I didn’t have a chance to grab an extra shirt.” 

D’Artagnan’s clothes were hanging off the backs of two more chairs which were placed before the fire. Porthos ran a hand over the sleeve of the shirt d’Artagnan had been wearing and then did the same with the younger man’s breeches. 

“Shirt’s mostly dry; the pants will depend on how much longer we’re here.” 

Aramis, not liking the expression on Athos’s face, said, “D’Artagnan needs rest; we should let him wake up on his own.” 

“I wish it could be that easy, but—” 

“It _is_ that easy!”  

“ _But_ ,” Athos repeated, laying the doublet down on the table and continuing on as if Aramis hadn’t spoken, “We cannot afford to let word of our weaknesses reach Feron and his cronies. We’ve already been gone far too long for our absence to not have been noted.” 

“You think they’re planning something,” Porthos said. 

Athos sighed and tried the rub the tiredness from his eyes. “I wouldn’t put it past them. If we leave in the next hour, we can be back to the garrison in time for the evening meal.” 

“I don’t like this,” Aramis said. 

“And you think I do?” Athos asked, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. 

Not wanting to fan the flames of discord, Aramis lifted his hands in surrender and said, “Let’s give him another half hour before we wake him.” 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan was startled awake by a hand shaking his shoulder. Without opening his eyes, he took a swing at the intruder, but his fist was caught by a hand much larger than his. 

Registering the size of the hand, d’Artagnan relaxed and nearly whispered, “Porthos.” 

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s time to wake up. We need to go.” 

Not fully awake and feeling a familiar general achiness all over his body, d’Artagnan said, “How far are we marching to today?” 

From across the room, there was a surprised intake of breath, and an unusually long pause, before Porthos quietly answered, “Paris.” 

“Paris?” d’Artagnan repeated, confused for half a moment before everything rushed back in. “Right.” 

As d’Artagnan sat up and took in his surroundings, Aramis asked, “How are you feeling?” 

He pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. He clamped his mouth shut to suppress a groan of pain from his overtaxed muscles, but guessed the others had heard it anyway. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, knowing that his friends wouldn’t be too happy about his answer. 

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he used his hands to try and rub the fatigue from his face and found it barely helped. Just as expected, his friends each vocalized their own unique versions of disbelief at his response. 

“Just because we are not out on the front lines any longer, d’Artagnan, it doesn’t mean that you can no longer tell us the truth,” Athos said with a hardness tinging his voice. 

In theory, what Athos said was true. They used to tell each other just about everything, but that had changed since they had returned to Paris. He used to think he was one of the few people who knew Athos the best, but now…now his friend seemed to be changing bit by bit. What Athos had said was just a tad hypocritical. 

Elbows still on his knees and his hands hanging lax between them, he decided he would be somewhat obtuse and only fully answer to the physical side of that question. The others did not need to know about the internal struggles that he had dealt with at the cemetery. 

“By fine,” d’Artagnan said as he briefly glared at Athos before shifting his gaze to Aramis, “I meant thirsty, exhausted, sore, and…”—he shrugged and bowed his head—“embarrassed. I apologize for causing so much trouble. Constance must be worried out of her mind by now.” 

Aramis handed him a cup of water, which he drank down to the last drop perhaps a little faster than was wise, if his stomach was any indication. The cup was taken from him and replaced with another, this one a watered down cup of wine. This time he sipped at the cup’s contents. 

“About that,” Porthos said, exchanging a glance with the others, “Constance is the one who sent us after you and—” 

“And?” 

“Athos.” Porthos said, throwing a brief glare in the man’s direction. 

“Oh.” It was the only thing d’Artagnan could think to say to that. Constance must have seen the two of them talking during those few minutes, and had assumed that they had left the garrison together. 

“D’Artagnan, I wish to—” 

He interrupted Athos, figuring he knew what the other man was about to say. “You had another commitment; Constance made a wrong assumption. There is no need to apologize, Athos.” 

He decided that it was all he was going to say on that matter. The captain part of Athos had been off duty, while the friend part had made other plans. D’Artagnan could not help that his expectations of and desire to spend time with his brother had been in vain. Though Athos had left abruptly, and without word of where he was going, d’Artagnan had little right to anything other than disappointment over the situation. 

“But, I—” 

“Athos.” 

“Alright,” Athos calmly said, nodding once in acknowledgment of his unspoken plea to drop the matter. 

D’Artagnan could see from the expressions on Aramis and Porthos’s faces that they weren’t happy that he was being quite so understanding, but he had no control over their feelings, just as he had no control over Athos’s actions. If they did not want to let this go, then that was their choice; he would not let their feelings dictate his own. 

His unexpected excursion to the cemetery where he had buried his father had not been what he had intended, but instead it had managed to be just what he had needed. He would’ve preferred to have another person to work out his grief and guilt and doubts with, but he still was able to find a kind of peace that he hadn’t had since before he had left the garrison for his walk. 

He was ready to go home. 

ooooooo 

As they rode towards Paris, Porthos was still a little taken aback over d’Artagnan’s reaction towards Athos’s actions as well as the attempt at an apology. He knew Aramis was just as surprised, but guessed that there would be no more mention of what Athos had done. He still thought it wrong for Athos to put that woman ahead of a friend and brother who had so obviously been hurting, but if d’Artagnan was willing to put the matter aside, then he could as well. 

Aramis snuck yet another glance towards d’Artagnan who was riding double with Athos. Considering the long walk his younger brother had made in unfavorable weather conditions, d’Artagnan seemed to be doing just fine aside from how sore and exhausted he was. He just wished that the man’s breeches had been completely dry before they had set out for home. 

The four of them had decided that, except for Constance, they would let everyone else make their own assumptions about their brief disappearance from the garrison. The fact that they were returning to the garrison exhausted and with only three horses between them, might even go a long way towards leading others to think that they had been out on a mission of some kind. It was what they were hoping for most. 

Athos had been surprised that d’Artagnan had chosen to ride double with him. And, if he were honest with himself, he was surprised but very thankful that d’Artagnan had not been angrier with him. He should have done better, should have tried to be a better captain and friend to d’Artagnan, but in that one moment he had let his heart, rather than duty or friendship, dictate his actions. Athos couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t happen again, but he promised himself that he would do his best to not let his brother down again. 

D’Artagnan had known Athos was not perfect from almost the first day that had met the older man. In fact, none of them were perfect, and they all regularly made mistakes. Some of those mistakes and misjudgments cost other people their lives, while others tested the bonds of friendship and brotherhood. Life in Paris was different now – _they_ were different now – and they needed to alter their expectations accordingly. 

Despite his good intentions, he’d had a part in condemning four innocent people to death. He had wanted to talk to Athos about everything that had happened and instead had ended up confessing his sins to an empty graveyard, with only his father’s spirit and God to hear him. The situation had not been ideal, but he felt the outcome was just as good as he had could’ve hoped. D’Artagnan was as much at peace with what happened as possible given his human limitations. 

However, there was one thing about which he still needed an answer. 

“Was it you?” he asked Athos. 

“What?” 

“The stone.” 

He felt Athos tense up as if the man was wary of his reaction. “Yes.” 

D’Artagnan tightened his grip around Athos for a brief moment in a sort of hug and said, “Thank you.” 

Athos turned his head slightly, allowing them to see eye to eye as much as they were able. With a small smile, his friend said, “You are welcome.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> I am aware that Borel only killed three people that we saw, but a fourth death was mistakenly attributed to the mad man, which he did not commit - the Dutch financier, Van Laar. However, d’Artagnan had no way of knowing that. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celticgal1041 for her help; all remaining mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
